


Beautiful Madness

by Underestimated_amateur



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Au - No Mark Jefferson, Child Neglect, Chloe left with Rachel, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, Implied Misuse of Medication, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Eating Disorders, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mark Jefferson doesn't exist, Mental Breakdown, Mental Disorders, Mental Health Issues, Nathan has some fucked up shit, Poetic Form of Words, Sadness, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, So no Chloe either, Some forms of self-harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Trigger Warning - Anxiety Attacks, Warren Tries, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 04:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10756323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Underestimated_amateur/pseuds/Underestimated_amateur
Summary: His mind is scattered, cluttered; a prison. His conscience constantly conflicted. His body feels of not his own. His skin itches and feels heavy on his bones; uncomfortable.He feels like he is losing his mind.





	Beautiful Madness

**Author's Note:**

> "Because you could have loved me forever. And maybe in another universe, I let you."  
> — Gaby Dunn

 

He remembers he's spent most of his life in a continuous loop of anger, fear, loneliness, and helplessness. None of which was ever in his control.

  
Things such as normality, happiness, and peace of mind came in short burst, leaving just as fast as they came. His innocence of youth and sanity robbed away by tainted hands and masked faces. Faces with lips that curl into wicked smirks and spew sweet lies, just soft enough for the ears to want to hear. He was hardly alive, no better than a puppet living a life condemned to someone else's vision. He learned the depth of greed, of pride, of selfishness. He's looked cruel ruthlessness in the face and its face was the man that played a part in giving him life. When he was younger he was told the Prescott’s owned everything, now Nathan knew it’s only his patriarch that held their little town in his hands.

Because of his father he learned of the word hate. Not the kind thrown into a sentence casually, simple-mindedly. A flutter of an eyelash, a second's tick of a clock and it's gone. _ No. _ He learned of the kind of hate that is a slow burning ember feeding to a larger fire. The kind that twisted and curled around your gut and sunk your stomach like a stone in a stream. The coldness of a stare, the anger of a voice, the snarl of lips turned downwards into disgust. Hatred that is  _ ugly _ and to the very growing  _ core. _ The kind of hatred that fed off its host and destroyed everything in its presence.

  
That too is something he cannot control.

His mother was a wandering spirit, a stranger in home. She would come and go and come again, only to leave shortly after. She has always been an extra in his life, a voiceless stranger to fill the background. She appeared when she's needed by the man who owns everything then faded away when not.

  
Coming.

  
And going.

  
Coming.

 

And going.

  
Never does he remember her staying.

_ 'Like she should,' _ His father had said, _ 'Certain people need to know when to be seen and not heard. And then not to be seen or heard at all.' _ It was spoken with annoyance and bitterness and with narrowed eyes piercing his soul, the world's focus on him and him alone.

  
He got the message. He wasn't too stuffed full of expensive meds yet not too.

  
His sister was a lot of things. She was the sun, bringing with her happiness and warmth, drying up the tears on his soft rosey cheeks. She was the rain, washing away all the harsh looks and mean words. She was a rainbow of colors when everything was in dark hues of gray and black. She was his only friend.

  
Then she was like Mother. Leaving.

  
And like Mother she stopped staying too.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
_'You’re mentally ill,'_ the doctors would say.

  
He always heard, _'You're not right.'_

  
They'd say, _'You just need to take your medicine.'_

 _  
_ He heard, _'We need to rewire your brain, because you are broken.'_

_ 'You'll be fine.' _ His mother had smiled. It was cheap; plastic, lips painted red and pressed in a thin line as the tips forced upwards.

  
_'I wish I didn't have a problem child,'_ he would hear.

_ 'You need to keep it together, there's no room for your mistakes. I'm growing tired of you messing up.' _ His father spat.

  
_'You are a failure. You are not good enough. I wish you didn't exist,'_ he heard. It was the same difference. 

 

_ 'That's terrible, I'm sorry.' _ His therapist would say, expression trying to look sympathetic, but it seems full of disinterest and mockery.

  
_'I'm here for your daddy's money.'_ Was all he heard.

His mind was scattered, cluttered; a labyrinth. His conscience always at war with itself. His body felt of not his own. His skin itched and felt heavy on his bones; uncomfortable.

  
He felt like he is losing his mind.

  
His father wasn't happy. He wanted a obedient dog he can train to do as he pleased, not a retard who's slowing going insane. Not something he to be ashamed of.

  
He soon learned his father's way of 'fixing' him; assuming he'd get better if enough medication was shoved down his throat and he was forced into a cramp, suffocating room to talk to a stranger twice a week.

  
Surprise, it never really worked.

  
He didn't like the pills. They made him tired then restless, starving then never hungry. It's when he ends up laying on his bathroom floor, crying his eyes out and holding himself, when his entire body is pale and shaking, when he's gasping for air because– oh god. Oh god. Oh god. He couldn't breath. His lungs felt like they're closing in on themselves and he felt so small like he's about to be swallowed by the floors into a dark abyss. He couldn't catch his breath, why couldn't he catch his breath? What's happening? What's going on? He wanted to cry out. Wanted to scream until his throat bled because he honestly thought he might die here and—

  
They called it a panic attack.

  
Apparently, depression and anxiety are side effects of most of his medicine. Against his better judgement, he hoped maybe he won't have to take anymore pills. That this was over and done with.

  
He let himself down again. His father only made him take more medication; antidepressants, among everything else. It's a handful, literally.

  
_'If you want to get better, take your medicine.'_ He was told. Looking down at the pills, they were a range of colors from orange to red, to white, to yellow, to green. Without blinking, without thinking twice, he tipped his head back and swallowed the little candies one by one. Dry; just so they'd hurt. He took them everyday after that, he no longer cared.

He didn't ever feel better, though.

  
He hated the ones he couldn't swallow whole, the ones that he had to let sit idly in his mouth until they faded away in his spit was torture. The taste lingered in his mouth for the rest of the day. It made him want to burn every taste bud off his tongue. 

  
He started staying out late, anything to not be at home. His parents didn't care anyway. Nobody ever cared anyway. Sometimes he got drunk, sometimes he smoked weed or dope. Or anything else he could get his hands on. He felt high, felt numb, and the voices that aren’t really there and scattered thoughts are calm for the moment. Fuck medication, drugs helped more than they do.

  
When he's not getting pissed or high as balls, he's sitting by the ocean. The best time is when Frank's not around and it's whale spotting season, then you can hear a chorus of them. Their melody washes over him, playing songs nobody else seems to care about. He finds it soothing, enough to where he's actually fallen asleep there in the cold dirty sand.

  
He buys a small radio with a built in CD player, because why the fuck not, he's got money– everyone reminds him of that everyday, and puts it by his bed. There's only ever one CD in it and that's all he'll ever need. Nowadays, he falls asleep to the CD playing, to the soft sound of whales, instead of just to a pill.

  
Sometimes he gets emails from his sister, when she remembers he exist. She always sounds so happy. Reading the newest message, he's bitter. He's angry. Hurt. Betrayed.

  
He's also petty.

Because he understands why she left as soon as she could. He understands because he would've done it too, if he could. If he wasn't a coward. But he doesn't give her that. Because it still stings. She made this place bearable, something that didn't feel like a personal hell. And she just left, just like that. Like he wasn't enough to make her stay. He's never enough.

  
_‘I just couldn't take it, that place was suffocating!’_ She had wrote to him, ending with, _‘I love you.’_

 _'Then why didn't you take me with you?'_ He had wanted to ask, but never replied. He never replied to her.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
He had little interests and only one real passion, an outlet, in capturing a moment with the click of a button and the flash of a camera. That was it. No other desire to do much else but down his pills and then shoot up his own kind of medication. He hit the Two Whales Dinner in the morning, ordering only a coffee; black, sour, bitter, how he liked it. After going to class, half the time he'd skip last period, he was taking his pills again, snorting powder or draining a wine bottle, eating what he wanted then throwing up half of it later. Before taking an hour to fall asleep only to wake up two hours later and it becomes a spiral of going to sleep and waking up, going to sleep and waking up. Then he's slamming a fist to his alarm clock and it's suddenly morning. An endless cycle of wash, rinse, and repeat, but he never really felt _clean_ per se. 

He liked to capture dead animals in a picture. No big deal really. There's something about how a thing that once moved grew still, once took breath no longer breathed, something that ran hot-blooded now faded to cold, and how the light in its eyes died with it. He found it surreal. But somehow he can relate to the dead sparrow in the yard or raccoon in the road. How it felt to be drained of life. How it felt to be lost to the world in a way. He took the pictures in shadow, in black and white, because death should not be in color. He found sempiternal beauty in it, found expression, others found it creepy.

  
It didn't matter. At this point he's learned to use his money as a weapon and as a shield. How else can he be safe in a world ran by greed?

  
Along the way of dragging his feet through life and glaring at any moving thing, he ended up at Blackwell Academy. The school having dorms meant he couldn't pack his bags fast enough. For the first time the leash his father kept tight around his neck loosened. He could finally feel himself breath.

 

Then he met Victoria. She shared his interest with capturing things with a lens. A short haired girl with a sharp tongue, quick wit, and an eye for detail. She was... different. She didn't take his shit. She called him out on when he was wrong, stood her ground, and got on his nerves. She'd match his sarcasm with her own then beat him with it. The girl could be just as cruel as him when she wanted and could see the world in his point of view in a way, at least to a degree. Many words were used to describe her, none ever pleasant.

  
They became quick friends.

  
Somehow, she– not break, his walls were still sky high and sturdy– but found a way over them. She snuck around his excuses and defenses and got in close. If he was good with emotions and words and just plain communication he'd tell her how much she meant to him. He'd tell her she is more like a sister to him then the woman who shared his blood and last name that's all the way across the world. He never said it, but he thinks she might already know.

  
He met a guy named Hayden later on. Despite popular belief, they were not friends, not really. Not like Victoria and him. They were drug buddies. Someone you'd look at and think, 'Yeah, I'd get high with him.' He's a good acquaintance, but that's all.

  
It wasn't long before he became apart of a club surrounded by drugs, sex, and alcohol. It was like a simple-minded moth to a alluring zap light. The Vortex Club was a loud and bauble thing, existing only for teens to get high and have a status to flaunt. It was also where he met her. 

Her; the girl jammed into a couch corner with a solo cup filled with who knows what. That's how he met a girl with the name everyone knew. Rachel Amber, she introduced herself with as the neon lights flashed over her, eyes twinkling with buzz and excitement. Rachel Amber became a name he couldn't get out of his head, even as he drank the night away with her, even when there's a hangover pounding in his head the next morning. After weeks, months, there was still Rachel. There was always Rachel, until there wasn't. She was like a firework, how she entered his life. She came in a colorful burst, bright and warm, and he couldn't look away.

She was special, a friend, hope, peace, happiness, everything. She treated him like a human being with they smoked pot. Smiled at him like he was something more when they shotgunned. Posed for him like a model at a shoot, like he was a professional instead of just some kid with a camera. She was the total opposite of the usual things he captured, because Rachel was far from dead. No, Rachel was the most alive thing he's ever known. She told him secrets of the world and whispers around the town with a grin pressed against a beer bottle tip. She was art. With her dark blonde hair that turned the color of the sandy beach in the sun at the right angle. With her enchanting eyes that blend grass and ground of the earth inside them. Her fair smooth skin and blinding smiles. With her grace and poise and the ability to forever look mesmerizing in front of a camera lens. Nathan wondered if this is how it felt to be in love with something real; something with thought and breath.

He didn't have time to truly think it through, because Rachel Amber was there until she wasn't. One day she left everything behind in a pickup truck with her girlfriend in the driver's seat. She didn't even say goodbye, maybe out of guilt, maybe just to permanently cut all ties.

Like a firework she left, fading into the dark night sky.   
  


  
  
  
*  
  
  
Freedom as he had it, was limited. Once a week he looked forward to a check up through email from the man he is expected to call his father. Twice a week he still found himself stuck in a boxed office with no windows and dull lighting. Kids stared at him, not because he was _Nathan,_ but because he was a _Prescott_. There was no awe or admiration in their eyes as he walked the halls and sat in class. Only envy, only hatred. A bit of nervousness and fear. Like sweetness with a tinge of bitterness, nothing in this world went completely right. Ignorance is bliss, but to know and ignore is something else. He watches as they pretend not to crinkle their noses when he stinks of drugs. They pretend not to see the medicine bottles he keeps in his gym locker, when he pops a couple of pills after swimming practice. They pretend his glares don't waver, because he's too stuffed with medication to focus right. They pretend to not notice his stumbles when he's too drunk to walk. They pretend they don't quiet down or drop smiles as he walks by. He learned, despite breathing air and bleeding red, that to them he was not a person, he was a time bomb. They are waiting for an explosion, for something inside of him to snap and suddenly combust. It's like stepping around broken glass. Like balancing on a high beam. Like picking a dead rose covered in thorns.

  
He pretends he doesn't care either way.

  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
The whole day is a blur. An nebulous fog inside of his head and he walks like he's supposed to be dead. He's not sure if he's high or just took too much meds at once. Maybe both, who even knows at this point. One minute he's waking up, cursing, getting dressed, skipping third class to smoke on school grounds because fuck David; the only thing worse than a security guard at a school is a mall cop, stalking the halls, selling some 'higher education', cursing, then it's last period if he hasn't left school yet.

He stumbles in, last student to be present, last minute before the bell. Ms. Grant glares, but fuck her too. At least he's here today.

  
Why is he here today?

  
He takes his seat next to another nobody with a cat emoji on their shirt. Ridiculous. The nobody smiles at him; warm, friendly, sympathetic. He glares back like he knows them enough to hate them. Class doesn't end soon enough.  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
It feels like he just blinks and it's already late at night. He stumbles, trips on air, and falls onto cheap two-dollar carpet. He's drunk. He's emotional. He forgot to take his meds. He's not hungry, but hasn't eaten anything all day, the only thing in him is stomach acid, alcohol, and self-pity. He groans, tired. Tired of moving, of his vision spinning, of his head hurting, of getting up, of falling down, of walking, of thinking. Of breathing. He's just so tired. So he lays there, a few steps by his dorm room, on the dirty floor, and closes his eyes.

  
"Are you okay?" Comes a voice. It's ironic in his mind because it sounds sweet, sincere, and worried towards _him._ That means it's not real.

  
"Fuck off," he grumbles. He's so close to sleep, maybe he'll even never wake up.

  
The last thing he remembers that night is being lifted up from the dirty two-dollar carpet.  
  
  
  
*  
  


 

  
He wakes up to familiar hell. Body heavy, killing headache, and a sense of feeling strung out and overused. He groans, voicing his discomfort to the walls and floorboards because they're the only ones that'll listen to his constant complaining.

"There's a bottle of aspirin on the desk beside you, water bottle too." A voice tells him. 

He freezes, never woken up not alone. The voice is from someone he's heard before. He sits up, despite the cry of his head saying the motion is too fast, despite his body begging him it's tired. At the end of– not his bed, this is not his room– is a mop of brown hair. There's a soft noise of Sci-Fi blaster guns and alarm noises coming from the person sitting on the floor. The sounds stops no sooner he recognizes them, and the not-completely-stranger looks over their shoulder.

  
"Hi." They say casually, like there's no questions to be answered. Like this is normal. Like Nathan didn't just wake up in their bed.

'Fucking creep,' Nathan thinks. But he knows he's probably not one to talk.

  
"What the fuck am I doing here?" He asks, glaring at the other student, at the nobody.

  
The kid frowns, bites the inside of his lip, face suddenly unsure. He gets up, bringing with him in his hands a laptop. Before he closes it, Nathan catches some nerd game on the screen. Placing the portable computer on the ground, he sits on the edge of the bed. Never does he break eye contact.

 

"I found you on the floor in the hallway. I tried to put you in your own room, but it was locked."

  
Nathan grits his teeth, absentmindedly his fingers curl into the sheets, knuckles turning white. He was utterly smashed last night, anything could've happened to him.

  
"So you brought me to your bed," he half speculates, half accuses.

  
The nobody smiles, shoulders relaxing, "Yeah!" He scratches the back of his head; an awkward gesture. "The floor's not very comfortable to sleep on, I should know, I let you have the bed last night."

 

Nathan raises an eyebrow, confused. The other didn't share the bed with him? Did they not..? He looks down. His clothes from yesterday present, and any added pain more than normal is absent. The answer dawns on him then; they didn't.

  
Nobody smiles again, "I'm Warren, I sit next to you in Ms. Grant's class."

  
"I don't care."

"Oh."

  
When he gets up to leave, Nobody stands too, eyebrows furrowed. "Don't you want the aspirin? I think it helps."

  
"No." He makes sure to slam the door as hard as he can on his way out.  
  
  
  
*  
  


He can't do this anymore.

It's too much. The pills are too much. Everything is too much. He can't take it anymore. He feels so dazed. So out of it. So insane. No more. No more. No more. Please, no more.

  
The funny thing about desperation is that it's a feeling that shoots throughout the body, causing panic and terror. Sometimes it makes you do brave things one can only dream to do. Other times it makes you make stupid choices. The funny thing about choices is that they come with consequences.

Nathan was desperate enough to make the choice of confronting his father.

  
"I'm saying they're not doing me any good!" Nathan yells. He could never keep the cap tightly shut on his anger. His fist were clenched at his sides, trembling like the rest of him.

  
His father finally looks up at him from his paperwork at his desk. His eyes were a terrifying darkness and a calculated coldness, a controlled mask built by power and superiority with a way to them that always unnerved Nathan. They had dark rings underneath them from work and age starting to show on his face. His tie was a bit loose, but that's the only flaw on his pricey suit, expensive enough to cost more than his own son. 

"Maybe they are not doing anything, because you don't want them to." He accuses, tone calm, but there's a dangerous sharp edge to it, piercing him with an unamused sneer.

"Excuse me!?" Nathan bristles, bile rising in his throat. It still taste better than the pills. He should stop now. Stop while he may not be ahead, but at least still somewhere in the whatever-the-fuck race they were in. But he's not good at understanding his emotions, little lone controlling them. So they spill out, like slicing himself open and letting his insides spew out onto the floor for all to see. "That's the stupidest thing I've never fuckin–"

"Watch your tone with me." The man before him warns, voice angry and demanding. And just like a slap to the face, like whiplash, like rolling up a newspaper and hitting a dog upside the head, Nathan jerks back and shuts his mouth. His father stands and the man isn't necessarily tall, but suddenly he's a giant, towering over ants, over insignificant bugs beneath his feet. "I will not tolerate your disrespect, you ungrateful brat. I give you so much and this is how you repay me? Has that fucked up little head of yours finally broke?" He snaps. The venom in his words and how he approaches his son makes Nathan think of a viper sinking its teeth into a rodent, poisoning the creature before curling its body tightly around the mammal, squeezing the rodent so it struggles to breath while the deathly poison spreads throughout its body. Maybe the snake snaps its neck for it even suffocates to death. How disgusting. How barbaric. How beautiful of a picture that would be.

  
Nathan returns to his dorm that day with a black eye and the right side of his face red. No one says a word.

Except one.

"What happened to your eye?" The nobody from before asks as soon as Nathan's rear end touches his seat. He glares menacingly, forcing intimidation, before turning his attention to the front of the class. He fakes interest in listening to Ms. Grant and while it seems he's learning about nitrogenous bases, all he's doing is comparing the teacher to a fat brown cow. He's never wanted a slow drag as bad as he does now. He feels something touch his hand; a small piece of paper.

  
_'It looks pretty bad...'_ Was written in neatly messy handwriting. He sends the nobody next to him another glare, but this time the kid isn't paying him any mind, like he was never the culprit. He huffs, irritated, and scribbles something down before shove-sliding it back.

  
_'No shit.'_ Was chicken scratched underneath the original text. He sits there and out of the corner of his eye he watches the nobody smile happily at the response, but soon frowns at the words.

  
_'What happened? Did you get in a fight or something?'_ He writes to Nathan, passing it back.

_ 'None of your business. It's fine.'  _ He snaps, as much as he could through a note.

_ 'I was just worried about you.'  _ Comes the reply.

  
Anger begins to boil inside of him, making him even further restless. _'Bullshit, you don't even know me. Nobody knows me. Fuck off.'_ He quickly writes, all but jammed it in the other's direction.

  
_'I'd like to.'_ The answer was short, and the nobody didn't hesitate to write it, the three little words poured out of him through his pencil and onto the wrinkled paper. Three little words and Nathan is left without a response or thoughts on what to do next. He looks up at the nobody next to him. They gave him a small smile, hopeful yet prepared for a harsh rejection.

  
Picking up his pen, body on autopilot, he writes, _'What-the-fuck-ever, who ever you are.'_ And passes it back.

  
Cue smiles and fast scribbling. _'Warren. My name is Warren.'_

  
Later that day he finds a small stack of papers, two or three with their backs cover in words and symbols, with a sticky note on top saying, _'Notes you missed and everything else you need for the test Friday!'_ With a stupid cat emoji at the bottom.

Nathan frowns, but doesn't really know how to feel about it.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
From Vic  
[1:02pm]   
Hey are u ok? You left the party pretty early last night...   
  
From Vic   
[1:05pm]   
Like u weren't even at school today. U skipping without me? ;)   
  
From Vic   
[2:35pm]   
Nate what happened? Hello?   
  
From Vic   
[3:00pm]   
Answer me.   
  
From Vic   
[3:45pm]   
I'm at your dorm, but you're not answering. What's going on. You better have just lost your phone.   
  
From Vic   
[5:00pm]   
Answer me dammit  
  
  
  
Nate listens as the knocking stops. It's loud, matching the pounding inside his pretty little sick head. He's a mess, unnatural sickly skin with glazed over eyes like wet glass, lips pale pink with a lingering dash of white powder, sweating and shivering on his bed in what he thinks are his pajamas, sheets and pillows astray everywhere. His colorful candies, his wonderful pills, are scattered on the floor with empty beer cans. He's not sure what's going on, too dazed to know who he even is or where he lays. His phone beside him buzzes once more, the last time for the day.  
  
  
  
From Vic   
[5:05pm]   
Please? I'm so worried about you lately.  
  


 

  
He doesn't answer, just closes his eyes. Though, he does not fall asleep.

  
It feels like minutes later, but must have been hours, because when he opens his eyes it's like he still has them closed. His room is pitch dark, no light coming from the window. He needs to pee, but he's not sure if he has the will to get up or just twitch a muscle. A sigh escapes his lips, it should scare him how tired, how depressing, how defeated it sounds, but that's how it always sounds anymore. At least for now he lays still, heavy and sore, but still, no longer trembling. Deciding he's not ready to piss his pants, he tries to stand, doing so in a pathetic and wobbly fashion, he feels his pills beneath his feet. Some crunch under him as he walks, some stick to his feet. He thinks he might have kicked a pill bottle on the way to the door. The hall light burns his eyes, like he had poured bleach on them. He stumbles, leaning against the door like a lifeline as he makes his way to the bathrooms. They smell of weed, shit, and disgusting teenage male hormones, but he's used to the aroma. He pulls his– he realizes now they’re his sweatpants– down and does what he came to do. Once finished, he yanks them back up. Ignoring the scribbles and trivial words no one says to faces on the walls, he turns on the water at the sink. Looking up into the mirror, he locks eyes with a shell. The young man looks tired, dragged through life, and overused. His blue eyes seem more gray, dull and hollowed out, holding no light nor spark of life. Like a corpse who still breathes air, living only through stubbornness, existing through no reason at all. Such a thing might as well be completely dead. Gutted out on the side of the road.

  
He should take a picture.

  
"You look like shit." The voice from before announces from the bathroom doorway. It's always that voice anymore. Among others, but those are all inside his head. Picking at him, chipping off fragment after fragment, piece after piece, of himself. Slowing destroying himself like stubbing out a cigarette bud. It's a sicking beauty to watch the flecks of black and gray of the bud mix with the deep red in his blood when he sometimes puts them out on skin.

  
"Fuck off, Warren." He tells the other, there was supposed to be burning heat and irritation behind his tone, but all he hears is emptiness with cracks in years built of a perfected facade.

"Dude, I'm not just leaving you like this. You're a jackass, but no one deserves this." The brunette frowns, looking him up and down before approaching. He grasps Nathan's shoulders, locking eyes with him. The nobody's eyes are a doe brown with the hints how gold, soft and sincere, almost pretty, but being this close to the other Nathan sees something he hasn't before. There's a kind of darkness to those eyes, hidden behind the black pupils. He feels something spark inside of him, something small and barely there. It isn't nervousness, nor terror. It's curiosity. It's wanting to get inside those pretty doe brown eyes with hints of gold and find the source of that darkness. Wanting to see where someone seemingly so sweet turns bitter. Like playing with fire for the first time, with the risk of burning your hands off. The dangerous kind of thrill.

He didn't notice it weeks ago when the nobody passed him a note, didn't notice it whenever he smiled, whenever he was in class, in the halls. Nathan snorts, looking away. It must be in his head, must be in the meds, in the drugs and beer.

  
"Nathan," Warren says again, gripping his shoulders tighter. The blond blinks up at him, scowling. The brunet frowns, eyes widening, as he grasps Nathan's arm he has to hold in the hiss at the cold bite of the skin. 

"Holy shit," he breathes, "We need to get you under some warm water, come on get in the shower." He tries to usher him into a shower stall, but Nathan jerks back, escaping his grip and managing to hit a solid wall.

"Don't tell me what to do! I am so sick of people trying to control me!" He screams, throat feeling like it's bleeding, as if he tore out his vocal cords. Arms wrapping around himself, he presses the back of his head against the cold wall, feeling less of a man and more of a cornered animal. His mind screams at him, pleads to him, begs for him to do something to stop the hurting, stop the trembling, but all he does is sink to the floor.

  
"I'm fine," he rasps out.

  
He feels like he's dying.

"Nathan you're shaking, you're freezing cold, obviously in pain, your skin is sticky from probably alcohol, and you literally reek of drugs." Warren sighs, squatting down in front of him, keeping a good amount of distance from him in an attempt to not further spook the other. Nathan says nothing, only curls more into a ball of self-pity and self-defense. He wants the nobody to go the fuck away and look for some princess to be a white knight to. Look for some damsel to be a hero to. He wants a dark void to seep through the cracks in the ugly tiles and swallow him whole. Wants for everyone to leave him the hell alone and let him rot here in the piss smelling bathroom with old mold infested tile floors and graffitied walls.

  
Warren watches the other whimper and tremble, resembling a beaten and abused dog. He shakes his head and tries again, "Come on Nathan, let me help you."

  
"I don't need you! You're nothing compared to me!" 

"I'm not the druggie here." 

The words come out harsher than he intends and he didn't mean to say them at all. He feels a sting of guilt when he watches the male huddled on the floor visibly flinch and tuck tighter into himself. Warren catches the way Nathan’s figurative walls around him thicken and he begins to escape inside his mind. He knows he needs to quickly correct himself if he doesn't want to be shut out.

  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Now come on, we need to warm you up and give you your color back. No offense, but hospital pale isn't a good look for you." He tries to joke, make the tenseness of the air around them lighten, because there's not much else he can do. Nathan replies with silence, a loud sickening sweet sound, but finally cooperates with him when Warren pulls them both to their feet. Pulling back the shower curtain, he helps Nathan under the small shower head. "You start, I'll get you some things okay?" He attempts to smile, to reassure. He hesitates, waiting for maybe something of a response then finally gets a mere weak grunt from the other.

  
He decides they're making progress and goes to retrieve shampoo and a change of clothes.

  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
Minutes, hours, and days pass by, but Nathan's not keeping track anymore.

  
He's high off his ass when he makes a groundbreaking discovery. Life is only a funny ephemeral thing. A lifetime is a mere speck of black on the time of utter existence. A part of humanity dies, but time does not stop nor hesitate; an eternal concept outlasting mankind. One small life means nothing in comparison. It– life, is a fleeting thing, and such a beautiful lie with ugly truths. A simple veil before an even more restless afterlife. It's crazy how so many people don't see it. It's hilarious how so many are scared of something so enviable. With their death, fade their accomplishments. No one's going to care what record you broke or what medal you won when your flesh is decaying and moths eat at your clothes. They won't care how fancy your suit, how expensive your car, or how big your house was when your six feet underneath their shoes. He hopes his father chokes on the truth of it. The realization swarms around in his head, racking around inside his skull until it starts to hurt. But then he lifts the cannabis up to his lips, inhaling the poison, and—

  
It’s gone.

  
He sighs, blissful with an empty mind.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
It’s a late Saturday night full of boredom and plans for weed, when there’s a knock at his door. At first he ignores it, thinking he heard it wrong and it came from the room next to his. The only one who knocks on his dorm door his Victoria and Hayden. Vic would’ve messaged him first, and Hayden is loud enough to be heard long before he even gets to the door. So he brushes it off, but then it happens again. The second round of knocking makes him begrudgingly slide off his bed and move to the door. He throws it open and glares at the person on the other side, only softening the glower when he realizes who the visitor is.

  
“What do you want?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest and leans against the door frame.

Warren smiles, hands in his pockets. “I was wondering if you’re free today?”

  
Nathan cocks a suspicious brow, “Why?”

The other worries his lip a bit, hand reaching up to scratch the back of his head awkwardly. “Um, you wanna watch some movies with me? I mean,” he chuckles nervously, correcting himself, “wanna hang out and watch some old horror movies with me?”

  
Nathan falters a moment, but then shrugs and steps out closing his door behind him.

“Sure,” he says and watches Warren’s face light up. It was better than sitting in dark, depressing room all day with a joint stuck in his mouth and head filled with bitterness and self-pity.

  
Warren’s room isn’t as tidy as his, but is hardly dirty in itself either. At least it doesn’t smell like drugs. The plain curtains he usually keeps open to let light in are closed, the room shrouded in shade. At the bottom margin of the bed sits a laptop, its screen illuminates against the darkness. On the floor by the end of the bed is a stack of DVDs, a bag of freshly popped popcorn, and a six pack of soda. Idly, Nathan wonders if this is what normal teens do in their free time.

  
He walks over and flops down onto the mattress. The sheets are comfortable and smell like they’ve just been washed. They gather around the device as Warren picks out the first movie. He holds it up so Nathan can see the cover, “This okay?” The image on the front of the DVD is of a woman dolled up in a pretty dress and looking back at him with a terrified expression. Nathan gives a small nod of approval and gets comfortable while the brunet puts it in and presses play.

  
They end up watching several oldies flicks, each more messed up than the last. As movies roll by one by one, Nathan begins to take note on the person beside him more.

  
Moments meant for you to cry or strike you horrified don't seem to affect Warren. They didn't affect Nathan either, mostly at least. He won’t deny there was some scenes that had made him squirm. He had tried play it off, hoping the other wouldn’t notice. It was strange to him in a way, how Warren laughs when the victim dies or falls into a trap. He laughs at the dark irony or stupidity of the characters, as if they are watching a comedy not a horror. When there’s any torture, especially physiological, his eyes track every movement to every word. As if fascinated and disgusted all in one. Then looks bored when nothing graphic or plot turning is happening. All the movies he chose are like the pictures Nathan takes; black and white with dark themes and centered sometimes by death.

  
Maybe he should scoot away from the other who's not as sugary sweet as he lets on, but instead he finds comfort in laying his head on Warren shoulder. The brunet chuckles as the woman on the screen becomes decapitated and wraps an arm around him in return. Nathan’s heart skips a beat, and he relaxes against the warmth Warren gives. Neither say a word of the exchange.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
He forgot to take his meds this morning, then left them in his dorm room all day. He can't even remember if he took any last night.

  
God, what the hell is wrong with him.

The slamming of a locker behind him causes him to involuntarily flinch. He's in a crowded hallway full of people, full of noise. Everyone is gossiping, laughing, yelling, and closing doors. Everything is too loud, too close. They're swarming around him, suffocating him without laying a finger to touch him. He can't take it, he feels sick. A sudden gravel voice in his ear makes him jolt, whipping around in panic. There’s no one there. No one out of the crowd and looking directly at him. Once again it’s all in his mind. He wishes he took his meds; his sweet little candies to rewire his head. If he had, his breath wouldn’t be quickening, his inhale-exhales wouldn’t be quivering. He folds his hands into his pocket so he doesn’t have to see them shake. His heart slams against his chest so much he wishes it would just escape already. The background sounds blend together to make one constant noise. His eyes become frantic, flickering at all angles at the odious life around him. No one has begun to stare, but he feels eyes everywhere on him all the same. An icy shiver racks down his spine and he shudders. He needs to leave, run away to a safe solitude no one can find him. No one can see him like this; weak and fragile. No one can see him fall apart.

  
He trembles, stumbles, and ducks into the nearest bathroom. Slamming against the farthest wall, he holds himself as he slides to the floor. The boy’s dorms are in an entirely different building. He won’t make it. He closes his eyes, continues to grasp for breath, and prepares to ride out the panic here. Only, he’s alone in his suffering for a solid minute, or maybe it’s a few seconds. He doesn’t know.

The door swings open, crashing loudly against the wall. Somebody calls his name and hasty footsteps make their way toward him. A hand hesitantly rests against his shoulder and his name is called again. Through his attack he manages to look up.

Warren.

“You’re hyperventilating, you need to try to take deep breathes, okay? Slowly, in and out.” The young man tries to instruct.

  
‘What do you think I’ve been trying to do?’ He wants to shout at him, but all that comes out is short, heavy labored breaths.

  
“Okay, okay,” Warren soothes, not pulling away. “Try this with me. Find three things in the room you can see right now. Can you do that? Come on, find three things, Nathan.”

  
Nathan glares, trying to focus the best he can. He squeezes his eyes together tight, forcing himself to gain back some ground. When he reopens them again, he surveys the room around him. He’s drawn to one of the lights above them. It’s flickering, clinging faintly to life. The old thing blinks every few seconds at them. Next his gaze travels to the leaking sink. The one in the middle of three drips small droplets from the faucet. The drops hitting the bottom of the sink would echo if not for his loud panting. The last thing his eyes collect to memory is the pinkness of the walls. They’re freshly painted and free of any stains. Maybe later he’ll realize he ran into the girl’s bathroom, but right now the little detail fails to register through his mind.

  
“Now find three things you can touch. What can you touch or what are you touching right now?” Warren inquires calmly. If his voice had held any sort of judgement or malice, Nathan would have shut him out. He would have pushed him away and told him to go to hell. Except, it didn’t. Not once. So Nathan closes his eyes and focuses on his hands.

  
One hand is gripping his letterman jacket, his fingers digging into the worn clothing. He didn’t even notice the vice grip he had on it. His other hand, he found, is holding onto the other man’s shirt. The digits are curled into the fabric like such a thing is a security blanket. If his breath isn’t not of control, it might’ve hitched. He hadn’t meant to do that. Hadn’t known he did it. Yet, he didn’t retract them and didn’t utter a word of it. Warren is nice enough not to either.

 

The last thing he can touch is more of what is touching him. Warren’s hand on his shoulder serves as an anchor. It’s a constant reminder that he’s here, that they’re here─ together, and they're okay. He’s not alone. Nathan almost chokes on a sob.

  
He’s not alone.

“I’ve got you, Nathan. I’ve got you.” He hears Warren tell him. He’s long since calmed down, now all he feels is tiredness. His eyes droop and his body slumps against the brunet’s. He feels drained. Beside him, Warren pulls out a set of headphones and places it on his head. A soft tune of whale melodies flood into his ear drums. He stares up, eyes wide, at the owner of the source of such mollifying sounds.

  
Warren only smiles, “I’ve heard them coming through your room some nights. Download sounds of them awhile ago. Just in case.”

  
Nathan’s chest swells, and he bites his tongue because a ‘thank you’ won’t roll off it. He lays his head against the other instead. They don’t say anything about the way their pinkies brush against each other.

  
Nathan lets himself have this one last nice thing.  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
It’s like a dam breaking, a tight rope snapping. At some point, something had to give. 

  
He messages Victora a simply goodbye. She deserves that much. He messages Warren, a note; short and sweet, then throws his phone away from him. He thinks it hits the wall by the crack that follows, but he no longer cares. He no longer needs it.

  
He has a handheld gun hidden under his bed. It shouldn't weigh much, but he's not sure which is more heavy: it or his heart. He traces his index finger along the barrel of the gun, the metal cold as death in his trembling grip. He swallows down terror, anticipation, excitement, choking on a pained dry sob of anger and misery. It's a mistake or it's a solution. It's a brave soul's last move or a coward's way out. Maybe even a desperate man's answer. Everything could end this day, this hour, this minute. The insanity of his mind, the decaying of his brain, the made up voices and images, the demons and fallen angels on his shoulders and inside his head, the haze and high of drugs, and rewiring of the cocktail of medication. It could be over.

  
The safety lock clicking is the loudest thing in the silent dark bedroom. It makes him flinch. He wonders if death is peaceful. If the hallucinations and disorders can't reach him if he can't breath. He thinks of the looks peers send, the absence of a mother, the abandonment of a sister, the disappointment of a father. They tell him to finish it. They scream at him to kill.

  
Then he thinks of Warren. His kind soul and heart that forever yearns to heal. His steady hand and soothing voice. The beats of Nathan’s own heart flutter around him and the good he makes Nathan feel. His laughter plays as melodies Nathan could listen to all day. Eyes like the lunar eclipse; shadows dancing behind his light. Nathan can bask in his brightness and take peace in the darkest parts of him. Only when he imagines Warren’s gentle face wrinkled in sadness and ruined by tears does he hesitate for a second.

  
But only a second.

  
He wishes he could’ve given him all the world’s oceans and all of the sky’s stars.

  
He wishes he could’ve given something worthy to cherish.

 

_ ‘Hey, it's Nathan. Look… I can't do this anymore. I can't live like this anymore. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I never wanted to hurt anybody. I'm just so tired. My mind was messed up, no one could save me anyways. Thank you for caring about me despite that. No one’s ever done that before. I… I could have fallen in love with you, you know? Even though you deserve better. I'm sorry I never said any of that. Goodbye, Warren.’ _

__  
A shot rings out in some high school dorm, on some night, during some week, in the middle of some year. Only a single soul wept the same night.  
  
  
  


.

**Author's Note:**

> Annnnnnd here it is! Finally! I've been working on this for like a year. 
> 
> Nathan caught my eye from the very beginning and I feel like he had some much more to show than he was given. However, I'm not justifying his actions, what he did was wrong. I just wish people would see his whole picture than just label him off as a 'fucked in the head rich kid with a gun and drugs.'
> 
> Something that should be noted: So if you took a look at the letter from his sister in the game, it's kinda implied that Nathan's mother was actually aware of the relationship Nathan has with his father. However, when writing this I mentally said "fuck it" and wrote her how I wanted. If you don't approve of something terrible happening, but don't do anything to help, you aren't exactly that much better, sorry. Blah, bite me :P
> 
> This took me a while to write. It's one of the saddest things I've ever uploaded anywhere and throughout writing it I cringed because some points really hit home for me and I knew how I was going to end it from the very beginning.
> 
> Sorry if it was bad, but thank you so much for reading and please leave a comment! I love hearing people's thoughts, it makes my day and makes me a better writer. 
> 
> (A/N): PLEASE READ THIS. Also, another note I’d like to add. In this short story, Nathan’s medication and therapy is perceived a bad thing. That is ONLY because his medicine isn’t regulated and thrown at him without thinking it through. Some meds clash with one and another, some meds just won’t work with certain people, and Nathan willingly consumed various drugs and alcohol often while taking his medication (which is not a good idea for obvious reasons.) As for the therapist, the man was hired under and hand-picked by his father. He is by no means, in this story at least, a qualified professional. 
> 
> Situations like Nathan happen, that’s true, but therapy and medication aren’t evil things guys. It sucks so much of the media portrays it as that. I’ve been there. It’s scary, annoying, and so much more. But it helps. Certain ways of coping or help won’t go well with certain people, but please seek help if you need it. 
> 
> Everyone matters and you all deserve a chance at happiness. 
> 
> Until then!


End file.
